Hermione really should have stayed home. But Snape insisted. And one thing ALWAYS leads to another. Based on Katy Perry's song Wakin' Up in Vegas. A business trip takes a tired Hermione and my favorite version of Snape to date to The Strip! Unfortunately they have NO idea what happened to the last 48 hours of their weekend.

A/N This is based on Katy Perry's Wakin' Up in Vegas. And as I happen to live in Las Vegas right now, I figured I might as well give this a go. Moreover, I think getting Snape and Hermione out of that damp castle every once in a while is good for shaking things up. There are some references in this story which may or may not correlate with the Conventioneers story which can be found on my main page. These similarities are only mildly intentional, and I'd like to think that one day I will be slick enough to figure out how to link these two stories together. I suggest taking a listen to the song Wakin' Up In Vegas if you have never heard it before you read. Personally I have listened to the song on a loop for the entire writing of this story. I will never have another song stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Enjoy!

Wakin' Up In Vegas

It always starts out like this. Every Muggle movie I've ever seen about two people who share a night they don't remember very well, they always start out with one of the two fluttering his or her eye lids against the light, coming back to life, to reality. All those movies, though, they always seemed so silly, so madcap. With the exception of Fear and Loathing, I suppose.

All I know is, I can't, for the life of me, explain why it tastes like I licked an ash tray, or why I'm waking up in what appears to be a very nice but very out of my league hotel suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower (which seems to be extremely close to my window), or why Severus Snape has one arm over me and one of his legs entwined with one of mine.

And I have no idea why we are both covered in glitter.

48 hours earlier

Severus's pen dug into the small of my back and I jerked up in my chair. Somehow I managed to not squeak in surprise, only hiss at him through gritted teeth.

He was sitting behind me this time as I'd insisted that he not sit next to me again after this morning's silent argument via Legilimency. He'd thought some pretty rude things in my general direction, and I had responded in kind. It wasn't my fault that I was exhausted. I'd spent the last 20 hours on airplanes and Apparating halfway to the States as I'd missed the 4:15 port key out of town the afternoon before.

I had started dozing off before the first speaker had even finished introducing himself, and Snape had thought it a good idea to shock me with the tip of his wand. I'd looked him dead in the eye and momentarily he smirked. "If I could do that, Granger, I certainly wouldn't be sitting here with you," he thought back at me.

And now, here it was, twelve hours later and the end of the first day's sessions, and I was still nodding off. I'd had about three pots of coffee by dinner time and I wasn't looking forward to fumbling around in my hotel room as I tried to whip up a half-way decent sleeping draught.

I didn't even want to come to this stupid convention, but Snape had insisted. He said it would make me look good to Devon and the grants committee and maybe they'd finally green-light my travel expenses to Bolivia, but I didn't buy it for a second. I knew damn well he just didn't want to carry around his stacks of parchment and notebooks full of observations. And I knew that having me there would be the perfect excuse to avoid the crowds. "I'm having tea with Prof. Digglio from the Italian Exchange," he'd say. "See that you take exact notes on Dr. Gowan's presentation."

I hadn't been his official research assistant in three years, but his old habits were still hard to break. Like the poking thing. It was his silent version of a pointer slammed down on a dozing student's desk. One bic pen drilled sharply into the kidney and a stern look. Somehow he thought that explained everything.

Another half hour and five p.m. finally crept along. It had only been an eight hour day for everyone else, but I'd been up for thirty-six hours by that point. I'd clocked a full day in the Consortium's lowest level store rooms deciphering the ancient miniscule cursive of the last Record Keeper's inventory lists from 1936 when I realized I'd lost all track of time and would be late for my port key. I'd only just Apparated back to my flat and grabbed my things when 4:15 came and went with me standing in the middle of my living room staring down at a useless and rather pathetic looking copy of the Sun.

I rushed to get the last seat on a flight which would have me bounce from Heathrow to Paris to New York, another stop in Chicago with a final touch down in Las Vegas. I shrunk down my luggage (which I probably should have done earlier and taken with me to work) and Apparated to the airport. I was just struggling out of my boots in the security queue when I felt the all-too familiar wiggling of something small struggling to become something big again from in my pocket. I cast a non-verbal Muffliato charm and sent Harry a silent thank you as I then cast strengthening spell after strengthening in the direction of my sweater pocket. I'm sure if Muggles were inclined to notice magical things, I would be in a small room somewhere being interrogated by MI6.

But no. Instead I made it to America where I was being yelled at my someone much more formidable than Her Majesty's Secret Service and the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes put together. And my tiny luggage had been fortified so strongly I was wondering how I was ever going to manage to make it normal sized again. I tried to concentrate on that task as Snape groused at me as we gathered our belongings and exited the ballroom turned lecture hall with the other conventioneers.

"It's embarrassing," he spat, enunciating every aspect and nuance of each letter. "People know damn well you're from the Consortium. How do you think it makes the rest of us look?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was a diplomatic mission. This IS Las Vegas, you know. After closing session I daresay the majority of these fine upstanding men and women of the Sacred Art of Potions will be getting completely... What's the American term for it? Shit faced? I'm exhausted," I reiterated for the fiftieth time that day. "And I would really love a nice small dinner of over-priced room service and a bottle of cheap wine before I fall face first into 750 thread-count sheets. Would you care to join me?" I added for effect. "To the first two parts only."

Finally this shut him up. Either out of shock or perhaps disgust, I managed to make snarky sounds cease their exodus from Severus Snape's mouth. He eventually broke from my side without pardon and joined another group dodging into the lifts.

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